


Peter B. Good

by cortexikid



Category: Deadpool - All Media Types, Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, Idiots in Love, Love Confessions, M/M, Peter B. Parker-esque, Peter and Wade kiss, Peter panics about their friendship being ruined and runs away to Europe, Realising that was a dick move he tries to apologise, References to Depression, Self-Esteem Issues, With tacos and his real name, and with a sprinkling of emotional vulnerability, early 30s Peter Parker, references to trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-18
Updated: 2020-09-18
Packaged: 2021-03-08 03:09:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,899
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26528773
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cortexikid/pseuds/cortexikid
Summary: Summary...summary...Need some help, buddy?No. Go away, Deadpool.It just, it looks like you're struggling to-I'm fine. I got this.People only read the tags anyway, so you're good.Uh huh.All they gotta know is that my fine ass is in this. Peter's too. We have tacos. And emotional conversations. And we make out.Right.And Hank Pym's saggy balls may be mentioned more than once, for some reason.Gross.Hey, you wrote it, not me.Yeah.So, we good? This puppy is ripe for the reading?As it'll ever be.Wow. You're really selling this. Good job. Maybe go for a lie down? The readers were sold on my fine ass anyway.Sure. Whatever you say, Wade.Jealousy is not a flattering colour on you, writer-lady.
Relationships: Peter Parker & Wade Wilson, Peter Parker/Wade Wilson
Comments: 16
Kudos: 161





	Peter B. Good

**Author's Note:**

> Hi everybody, hope you're safe and well. So, I’ve been around the Spideypool block a few times now. But have been away for awhile. Any peeps out there still waiting for the last chapter of  Say Anything...Except That for well, ever – I’m so sorry, I swear I’m working on it and will finish it this year if it kills me. In the meantime, to tip my toe back into the Spideypool waters—
> 
> **Ew.**
> 
> Shut up, Deadpool. We are not ‘bros’ in this fic.
> 
> **But—**
> 
> Nope. Go back to [ Say Anything...Except That](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3096005/chapters/6706820) and stay there.
> 
> **You’re really trying hard to get people to read that shit show, aren’t you?**
> 
> Ignore him. Anyway—to dip my toe back in, I decided to take on a prompt (awhile ago now) from the amazing [ itsmajel ](https://itsmajel.tumblr.com/) for a Spider-Man/Deadpool story where Peter ends up on Wade’s doorstep with tacos ala Peter B. with flowers for M.J. in Spider-Verse. So that, became this. This is dedicated to [ itsmajel (go follow her)](https://itsmajel.tumblr.com/) with a huge thanks to her for all the helpful feedback and advice, gorgeous fanart and overall talent, this would not exist without her. It was such a fun collaboration. Hope you all enjoy!
> 
> [yellow box]
> 
> {white box} 

_“Your reputation precedes you.”_

_“And what reputation is that?”_

_“Not sure you wanna know.”_

_“You’re probably right...but tell me anyway.”_

_That, Peter wasn’t expecting. He had heard a lot about Deadpool, of course. Nearly all of it bad. He wasn’t sure where to start._

_“You kill people for money.”_

_It was as good a start as any._

_The merc snorted, shuffling across the rooftop and sitting down heavily on the ledge, “I do a helluva lot more than that, Spidey. Give me some credit.”_

_“You also annoy the shit outta almost everyone you come in contact with.”_

_“Has Prof X been singing my praises again?”_

_Peter tilted his head, already exasperated, but somehow still amused by the oddball Canadian._

_“You help people.”_

_“When I can.”_

_The sincerity in his voice made Peter take a step back._

_“You helped me save that girl.”_

_The mercenary’s shrug was almost imperceptible._

_“Like I said...when I can.”_

_And just like that, every crazy, twisted, negative rumour he had ever heard about the Merc with the Mouth was thrown into question._

_Life wasn’t just black and white._

_Or black and red, in Deadpool’s case._

_“Thank you.”_

_The mercenary looked like he wasn’t too used to hearing that, if his slack jaw that was exposed from where his mask was partially rolled up, was anything to go by._

_“Anyway, I’ll uh—leave you to your taco,” Peter mumbled, gesturing over his shoulder, the smell of food threatening to make his stomach give an embarrassing rumble any moment now._

_“I...have another,” the voice, now timid, stopped him in his tracks, “You know, if you’re hungry or whatever.”_

_No._

_He should say no thanks._

_“Sure. Thanks.”_

_Peter’s feet moved on their own accord, over to where Deadpool sat on the edge of the building, his own feet dangling mid-air. Before he could talk himself out of it, he reached a hand out towards the mercenary._

_“Spider-Man.”_

_The red and black mask moved in such a way that suggested raised eyebrows, before he closed the gap, shaking his hand._

_“Deadpool.”_

_Peter nodded, letting their hands drop, “It's nice to meet you, Deadpool.”_

_“It’s nice to meet you too, Spider-Man. Hope you like chicken,” the merc murmured as Peter sat down heavily beside him, crossing his feet at the ankles._

_“I love chicken.”_

_“I love you.”_

_Peter’s heart hammered in his chest._

_“No. That’s not what you said next.”_

_“No,” Wade agreed, “but it’s what you always wanted to hear me say.”_

_Peter stared at his hands, clenching and unclenching as Wade quietly continued:_

_“It’s what you always wanted to say back.”_

“PARKER! PERK UP! MY NINETY-EIGHT-YEAR-OLD DEAD GRANDMOTHER IS LIVELIER THAN YOU!”

Peter Benjamin Parker shot awake, jumping up from the chair at the sound of the gratingly-familiar tone.

“Uh, hi, Sir,” he cleared his throat, running a nervous hand through his mussed hair as he tried to shake the vestiges of the upsetting dream/memory from his brain, “How are you?”

That hundred-yard stare bore a hole straight through him. 

“Wondering where the hell you’ve been for the last year Parker, that’s how I am.”

The brunet managed to hide his cringe, but it was a near thing.

“I was visiting family, Sir. But I’m—I’m back now.”

“And, let me guess,” Jameson scoffed, brushing past his ex-employee, into his office with the air of a man who was paying only the slightest of attention, “You want your old job back?”

A wave of embarrassment washed through Peter like a tidal wave on rocks, and were he a younger man, he would have allowed it to drown him. But he wasn’t nineteen anymore. The last decade had taught him many things. One of which was the ability to swallow one’s pride, embrace humility and reject hubris. It was all very grown up of him.

Even if most of the time, it was complete and utter bullshit. 

“I would love the opportunity to work under New York’s finest publication again, yes Sir.”

Ass kissing, too. That became important in everyday life.

“Yeah, yeah, save it, Parker,” Jameson waved dismissively, sitting down behind his desk, unlit cigar in hand, “Less talky-talky, more clicky-clicky.”

The ex-photographer felt his eyebrows shoot up his forehead. 

“You uh...does that mean I’m hired, Sir?”

Those steely eyes stared through him. 

“That depends. You think you can rub elbows with more than just that eight-legged pest?” 

“Spider-Man doesn’t actually have—”

“He’s been boring for a while now,” Jameson cut across Peter, standing abruptly, rolling the unlit cigar between his thumb and forefinger, “Barely around anymore. But these other freaks...now their ugly mugs are definitely worth capturing.”

He pointed at Peter’s phone.

“Write this down, Parker. You can get me these up close and personal? You’re hired.”

An uncomfortable feeling sank like a stone in the pit of his stomach. With twitching fingers, he unlocked his phone, his chest tightening at what was revealed.

  


The words swam in front of his eyes in a hazy pool of jumbled letters.

He was tired.

So. Fucking. Tired.

He was looking it too, his reflection juxtaposed with the last conversation he had ever had with Wade Wilson. It wasn’t a pretty sight, the cracked, illuminated glass casting back the deep, dark circles under his eyes that made it seem like he went ten rounds with Tyson back in his heyday. 

It was not attractive. Just one of the many, many reasons, he was still single. And unemployed. And broke. Okay, okay, so the last two maybe had no direct correlation to his unattractiveness, but it definitely didn’t help.

“...the new Hawkeye, a broad I think. Kate something or other,” Jameson was rattling off his list of names, waving his hand about dismissively as Peter shook himself from his reverie and typed the details into his phone. 

“The Falcon and Winter Soldier have been layin’ low so you may have your work cut out there. Deadpool shouldn’t be too much of a problem, that foghorn comes barreling up to any good shootout—but Wiccan and Hulkling are known to—”

“No.”

The word left Peter’s mouth without conscious thought. 

His heart had given a jolt at the familiar name. A name he hadn’t heard, hadn’t even let himself think of in over twelve long months. 

A thick, grey eyebrow rose up to Jameson’s receding hairline. 

“No?”

Peter fought the urge to fidget under that steely gaze and razor tone. 

He shuffled his weight from foot to foot nonetheless.

“I uh...Deadpool is a no-go, Sir. The others shouldn’t be a problem, but Deadpool is...we—”

Jameson’s eyebrows only continued to rise, his eyes bulging out comically wide. Peter silently reminded himself that now was definitely not the time to laugh. 

“Your little trip away ‘Eat, Pray, Loving’ has clearly made you forget a few things, Parker. Namely that I’m the boss and you’re the employee,” he twirled the unlit cigar between his fingers, “ergo, I tell you what to do and you do it.”

He plunged the cigar down into the empty ashtray on his desk, twisting it violently. 

“My granddaughter bought me a ‘Word of the Day’ calendar. Was wondering how I’d get ‘Ergo’ into a sentence.”

Peter watched Jameson grind the cigar into the glass fixture, his stomach doing much the same with the breakfast he forced down his throat earlier. Nausea was setting in. Great.

He couldn’t accept the job. 

He wouldn’t accept the job. 

“Whatever scrimmage you and The Merc With The Mouth are involved in, get over it. He may look like Freddy Krueger ploughed a deep dish pizza, but the Bugle readers demand a candid.”

He leaned forward, rifling around in his desk drawer, before throwing a laminated press badge at him, that Peter deftly caught. 

Jameson’s eyes narrowed into slits. 

“So go get one.” 

And that seemed to be the end of that.

Peter stared down at the press badge in his hand, any and all arguments bouncing around his brain like a pinball machine. 

Slowly, he glanced back up. 

“Was ‘scrimmage’ in your Word of the Day calendar too, Sir?”

He lobbed two heaped spoonfuls of fine coffee grounds into the cup, heaving a sigh, his shoulders sinking.

“Wow. Must be bad if you’re having instant,” a familiar voice remarked from behind him. 

He hummed noncommittally, reaching over to snatch the toast out of the toaster. A hand landed on his before he could put it on the plate. Peter looked up, meeting the soft gaze of his aunt, a knowing glint in her eye. 

“You call him yet?”

Peter let out a groan worthy of his teenage self. 

“Aunt May! I can’t just call him up and—”

“Why not? I’m sure he’d love to hear from you,” she cut across her nephew, picking up a knife and beginning to butter the toast. 

He poured hot water into his cup, staring down at the swirling brown liquid with a heavy heart. 

“You know I got that fancy French roast you like,” May remarked when he remained silent, “Why don’t I—”

“He won’t want to see me. I hurt him. Bad.”

May slid the plate of buttered toast over to him. 

“It’s been a year, Peter...there’s no harm in trying. He might just surprise you.”

Peter’s eyes fell on his cell phone where it lay next to his coffee cup as if it would suddenly ring on its own accord and put him out of his misery. Several beats of silence passed, the phone stubbornly refusing to buzz.

He sighed, forcing his gaze away.

“I don’t even know what I’d say.”

May reached up and squeezed his shoulder, leaning into him and checking his hip with hers, “Well, I’d go with, ‘Hi Wade. I’m Spider-Man. Sorry I didn’t tell you before and ran away to Europe.’”

Peter couldn’t see his own face, but he knew that he was leveling her with the stink eye that she herself had taught him.

“What?” She asked with a shrug, all faux innocence, “It’s as good a start as any.”

“Is it really?”

She rolled her eyes, “Yes, drama queen, it is. Just...start simple, and work your way up.”

He scoffed, “Oh, and starting with, ‘Hey man, I’m the superhero you were hanging out with and getting close to for years, but left your ass when things got too real,’ is simple, is it?”

Her stare was positively piercing. If he didn't know any better, he'd swear she had been spending time with Jameson. 

“Yes. It is. You have to start somewhere. And the truth is always a good thing, Peter.”

“It’s not the full truth, though.”

Her stare softened. 

“I know, Pete. But you’ll get to that. You have to focus on getting him to answer the door, first.”

She had a point. Wade was notoriously paranoid. He hardly ever answered unknown numbers— 

(“I’m practically a millennial, dude. Nobody under sixty-five answers blocked numbers.”)

—let alone opened his door to perfect strangers. Luckily, there was one thing that the Canadian proved to be vulnerable to. 

“I’m gonna need a bag of tacos.”

She chuckled, “Tacos? Back in my day, when a gentleman wanted to apologize to his love for being an idiot, he brought flowers.”

Heat rose in his cheeks. 

“I didn’t say anything about love, Aunt May.”

She arched an eyebrow, “You didn’t have to.” 

He smiled down at his phone, the soft glow the only source of light on the gloomy sidewalk. He knew it was pathetic, keeping those old messages and torturing himself by reading and rereading them over the past sixteen months, but he found that they soothed him, reminded him of better times. Calmed him in a way that was only beaten out by Wade himself. 

Wade Wilson who he, Peter Parker, or more accurately, Spider-Man, abandoned right around the time they...got closer. Said some things, felt some...other things—

_[Ooh, kinky]_

__

__

{I think he meant in a felt feelings kinda way, not like, crotches}

[Less kinky]

{Also, we’re not meant to be here. This is Peter's Point of View}

[True. But we do what we want. Rebels with a cause]

{Without a cause}

[Oh, we definitely have a cause]

{...which is?}

[Getting Spidey and the big guy to bone. Duh.]

—that he hadn’t been ready to feel at the time. They had made a good team, Spider-Man and Deadpool, or 'Spideypool' as Wade had insisted they go by whenever they teamed up. They took down bad guys, bantered and beat their way through any goons New York City dared throw at them. And Peter had meant that message he had sent. He hadn’t laughed like that in a long, long time. 

Being Spider-Man for nearly fifteen years had admittedly been taking its toll on him when he and Wade had first met over three years ago. He had been going through the motions in a way that he never thought he would have when he first got bitten and donned a red and blue spandex suit at fifteen years old. 

Day in, day out, it was work, patrol, bad guys, bed, work, patrol, bad guys, bed—over and over and over until every day bled into the next and it felt like one giant Groundhog Day that he, Phil Connors, couldn’t escape from. Until he met a red-and-black-clad mercenary with a wicked aim and even sharper tongue. 

_[Nice]_

__

__

_{He means wit}_

__

__

[Does he though?]

That made days so much more bearable. Fun. Livable in the liveliest possible way.

So of course, Peter had to fuck it up. 

Just like he did everything else. 

Just like he did with Gwen and Harry and M.J. and every other meaningful relationship in his life—his aunt excluded. 

Because it was what he did. 

His eyes lowered back down to the phone. To his final few messages from Wade, sent over a year ago. His stomach twisted in knots, the heavy pang a well-known adversary to him now. 

The door creaked open a sliver before Peter could talk himself out of it. He clutched the paper bag even tighter in his grip, trying and failing to stem the shaking of his hand.

A shadow cast over the dimly lit stoop, basking Peter in darkness.

“Can I help you?”

That voice.

One year, four months, nineteen days, seventeen hours and three minutes had passed since he last heard that voice.

Slowly, he held up the bag.

“I—” Peter cleared his throat, “I brought tacos?”

The hooded figure tilted their head before taking a few steps forward, finally, finally, letting Peter see that face he had missed so much when he was away.

“Uh…thanks?” Wade replied, confusion colouring his tone as a crinkle appeared in between his non-existent eyebrows.

_[Woo! Free food!]_

_{Gotta love mystery tacos}_

Peter bit his lip as he watched his friend reach out, clasp the bag and take it from him after he relinquished his iron-grip.

They both stared down at the bag now in Wade’s hands, before hazel eyes met chocolate-brown.

“Cool,” Wade nodded his thanks, “uh…just one thing, though.”

Peter’s entire body seized up, mentally trying to prepare himself for the inevitable rejection.

“Yeah?” he forced himself to ask.

“Who the hell are you?”

Peter’s mouth dropped open.

“I mean, I appreciate free food as much as the next guy, but I gotta say, door-to-door freebies? Weird business strategy. Especially at night, there’s all kinda weirdos out. Not just me.”

He laughed then, the sound of it piercing Peter’s chest cavity, straight into the nexus of his heart.

He had missed that most of all.

It had to have been that sound that compelled him to say what he did next:

“Peter Benjamin Parker. That’s my full name. I’m sorry I never told you before.”

Back when we were falling in love.

Those words he left unsaid. Barely able to acknowledge them, let alone speak them into existence. 

Not yet.

Something passed over Wade, then. A spark in his already warm eyes as he replied, “The full-name treatment, huh? Damn. Sam’s Tacos really are going above and beyond with their customer service.”

Peter didn’t know what to say to that, but to Wade, it didn’t seem to matter.

“Well, thanks for the late night snack, Peter Benjamin Parker,” he held up the bag in acknowledgment, “I’ll be sure to give you five stars in my overly-wordy Yelp review.”

With that, he turned on his heel and made his way back towards his front door.

“Wade. It’s...it’s me.”

The Canadian stopped in his tracks, a clear line of tension marring his shoulders.

“I know it’s you, Spidey. I’m not an idiot, I’d know that voice anywhere and only two people on this planet are privy to my exact taco order and somehow I don’t think you’re Mama Valente,” he sighed, still turned. “I just thought that if I ignored it, you might go back to wherever you fled to a year ago and I could eat this peace-offering in—well, peace.”

Peter’s stomach sank into his shoes. 

“I…deserve that. Look just…enjoy the food. I’ll…let you…” he gestured helplessly over his shoulder, despite knowing Wade couldn’t see it, and forced his feet to step back and begin to walk away.

_Stupid. So. Fucking. Stupid. You really thought you could just waltz back into his life after sixteen goddamn months with some tacos and your real identity and all would be forgiven? What the hell is wrong with—_

“I can smell that your order is in here, too, you know. Chicken with lime crema cilantro. Guess some things don’t change.”

With that, he pushed his door open wider and called out behind him, “Come on, Peter B. Good. You’re letting all the hot, sticky air in.”

His heart leapt in his chest.

“Peter B. Good?” he asked as he scrambled forward lest he risk being smacked in the face by the door.

“Uh yeah,” Wade continued, still not looking at him as they made their way through his hallway and into the living room, “like Johnny B. Goode? The song? Chuck Berry?”

Peter hummed, glad that Wade couldn’t see his pleased smile.

“But like, without the ‘E’ at the end because you’re a superhero. A ‘good’ guy. Geddit?”

“Smart.”

“I’m known to be from time to time.”

Peter’s smile grew larger as their familiar banter began to creep back into their dialogue.

He had missed this second-most.

“Willkommen bienvenue welcome,” the Canadian said with a flourishing wave worthy of the Emcee himself before plonking down heavily on his couch, taco bag in hand. 

Peter’s gaze bounced around the living room, awkwardness creeping up and itching the back of his neck. It was almost just as he remembered it, a juxtaposition of a frat boy’s dorm room and a forty-year-old’s bachelor pad. 

“I uh, like what you’ve done with the place,” he murmured, his eye catching on the hand drawn picture of Wolverine that definitely wasn’t on the wall the last time he was here. 

“Oh, right,” Wade muttered almost to himself as he began opening the food, “You’ve been here before. Hasn’t changed much in the last year, really.”

They were ignoring it, of course. The very last time Peter was here. And everything that went with it. 

“Are soggy tacos your thing, or…?”

Peter jolted from his surveyance of the apartment, heat flooding his cheeks. 

“What?”

Wade gave a one-shouldered shrug, “Just sayin’, you stand there much longer and your taco is gonna be mushier than Hank Pym’s ballsack. So unless that’s just how ya like ‘em, I’d suggest you sit your ass down already.”

Peter’s nose wrinkled at the onslaught of disturbing images that followed those words. He had met Dr Pym on multiple occasions, each with varying degrees of success, but it was safe to say from now on, any further interactions would be...tainted. 

_[Heh. He’s trying not to think of Pym’s ‘taint’]_

_{Ugh gross. What are we, a dollar store romance novel?}_

__

__

_[Mediocre fanfiction. So...close?]_

Suppressing a shudder, Peter unglued his feet from the floor and forced himself toward the couch, sinking down into the cushions with his gaze focused straight ahead, his side pressing into the arm rest. From his periphery, he saw Wade hold out the bag to him. 

Slowly, he reached out to take it, eyes still averted. 

A jolt of electricity bolted through him when their fingers brushed.

Their eyes locked.

Wade wrenched his hand back as if burned.

A sharp pang shot through Peter’s chest as he gently lowered his hand and opened the bag.

The taco was cold.

And soggy.

But under Wade’s not-so-subtle gaze, it wasn’t so bad. 

They ate in relative silence, so unlike their days bantering on rooftops. 

“I fucked up.”

His aunt told him to start with the truth. That was the truest truth of them all. 

“I fucked up and I’m sorry, Wade. I—I can’t tell you how—”

The Canadian leapt up from the couch, cutting him off abruptly, wiping his hands on his jeans before turning on his heel, “You want something to drink? I got some Red Champagne straight from Quebec.”

Without waiting for a response, he made his way towards the kitchen without a backwards glance, calling over his shoulder, “It’s soda, by the way.”

Peter knew he was gaping, but he couldn’t really figure out a way to control his face as he watched him go, taco already demolished, the few crumbs trailing behind him the only vestiges left of his somewhat-romantic gesture. 

He was up and following Wade into the kitchen before his brain could catch up with him. 

“Wade listen, I—whoa.”

The kitchen was barely visible. Instead of housing cutlery and other homeware, it resembled something more like the base of operations from some Spy B-movie set. Lining the walls and every conceivable surface were schematics, electronic equipment, maps, a myriad of weapons and enough wires to make an IT guy’s head explode.

“What is all this, Wade?”

The man in question whirled around from where he stood at the fridge, (one of the only remaining items actually suited to a kitchen) and threw him a look of the proverbial kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar. 

Discomfort melted into a forced nonchalance on his face as he gave a shrug.

“NYC has a shit ton of crime. Who knew?”

Peter shuffled further into the room, jaw slack as he took in the sight before him.

“You’ve...been doing all this to watch over New York?”

“Well, someone had to pick up the slack after Spidey took an extended vacation.”

_{Ouch}_

_[Someone get the poor boy some ice for that burn]_

“Touché,” Peter forced out through his grimace as he stepped over to look at a map of New York’s subway tunnels. 

“I kept my ear to the ground, you know,” he remarked over his shoulder, folding his arms across his chest and listening as Wade filled some glasses with soda, “I wouldn’t just abandon New York completely.” 

I wouldn’t abandon you completely. 

Those words he left unsaid, but hoped Wade heard them anyway. 

Wade gave a loud snort, gingerly crossing the room to join him at the map, extending the glass of soda, “What, in between trips to Linderhof Palace and Blarney Castle, you found time to check up on downtown Queens?”

Peter's head snapped to the side, widened eyes raking Wade's face. 

"How did you know I was in Europe?"

Wade kept his eye on the map as he replied, “Uh, newsflash asshole, I’m sort of a world-famous mercenary? I got skills you can’t even imagine. All covert, cloak and dagger shit. And I thought you were dead. Can you blame me doing a little recon?” 

Peter balked, “Recon?! Wait, did you know who I—”

Wade held up a hand to cut him off, “Relax Parker, your identity was safe. I never got your real name. I just…made a few calls. Shook a few hands, and some other things, to get good intel that Spidey wasn't in a ditch somewhere. I wouldn’t...I wouldn’t betray your trust like that. Not ever.” 

A beat passed between them.

"And, I had a good starting point anyway,” Wade shrugged, eyes still averted, “you said once that you went to Europe when you were a kid and liked it. Seemed like the logical place for you to run away to." 

Irritation sparked in Peter’s veins, his teeth clenching. 

"I didn't run away."

Wade turned, eyes finally meeting his. The fire that Peter saw in them, gave him pause, "Oh really? What would you call it then?"

"I…"

Any and all excuses fled from his brain, so in lieu of response, he took a sip of the drink. 

Wade watched him for a moment, accessing his reaction, before he gave a sardonic chuckle, waving dismissively, "No biggie. You'd rather kiss the Blarney stone than me, I get it."

A seering mix of anger and shame seeped into his veins, flooding his insides with heat as he was reminded of that fateful night, over a year ago. He could still feel the ghost of Wade’s lips on his.

“I—you caught me off guard, Wade. That’s all.”

A laugh, bitter and broken, sounded throughout the room. 

“So off guard you fled to Europe for a year,” he growled, knocking back the soda like an alcoholic would whiskey, storming over to the sink and clambering around aimlessly with the abundance of tech. 

Peter watched the line of tension in his back, his rigid shoulders and combative stance, preparing himself for the worst. 

“I...had to get away, Wade. Had been thinking about it for awhile. I’m sorry about the way we left things, but—”

“I kissed you, Peter.”

Wade’s voice sounded defeated as his shoulders sagged, his entire body unclenching, tension seeping from it like air from a balloon. 

Peter thought he’d feel joy at finally hearing his name fall from Wade’s lips, but instead, dread pierced his chest.

Wade continued speaking to the sink, clearly on a roll, “I kissed you and you kissed me back before freaking out and hightailing it to god knows where. Have you any idea how long it took me to psych myself up to do that? Me, looking like a naked mole-rat face-fucked Mickey Rourke,” he paused, heaving a sigh.

“But still, no calls, no texts, not so much as a ‘fuck you’ for sixteen months before you randomly show up on my doorstep with tacos, a half-assed apology and your real name. What the hell am I supposed to do with that?”

His cheeks burned, a potent blend of embarrassment, shame and anger continuing to flood his system at those words. Nothing the other man had said was wrong, and they both knew it. Didn’t mean that it was any easier to face, though. 

He took a tentative step forward. 

“I’m sorry I reacted badly, Wade. But trust me, it had nothing to do with y—”

Another horrible laugh, shallow and empty. 

“Really? The ‘it’s not you, it’s me’ schtick? That’s all ya got?”

“I—”

Wade whirled around so fast it made Peter’s head spin. He watched as the merc gripped the edge of the counter so hard that it began to crack. 

“It’s the truth, I swear. I—you thought I had all the answers, that I was some, I dunno, hero, and...that couldn’t be further from the truth,” he was suddenly barely a foot from Wade, despite having no recollection of moving.

He forced himself to stay where he was, eyes trying and failing to make contact. 

“I was a goddamn mess,” he threw up his hands, feet itching to pace, “I was jaded. Off my game. You had to have known that.”

A flurry of expression crossed Wade’s face in the next few seconds. But it was his silence that spoke volumes. 

“I knew something was going on with you,” he shrugged, speaking to the floor. “Didn’t exactly think you’d hang out with a guy like me if you were fully compos mentis.”

Peter gave a full-bodied wince.

“It’s like they say...misery loves company.”

“And what the fuck does that mean?”

Wade’s tone had hardened, his eyes flashing as they finally met his in a deadlock stare. 

He immediately began to backpedal, holding up his hands, “No, I—I just mean that I...appreciated our chats, Wade. You—you were easy to talk to, vent to, just...be with. You know?”

Wade deflated, a sheepish expression marring has features before he schooled them back into something more impassive. 

“I know.”

A silence engulfed them, weighted with words unspoken. 

Peter took a deep, shaky breath, steadying himself as he lowly admitted something he had wanted to for a long, long time. 

“I wanted to tell you every day. Who I was. I’ve never wanted to tell anyone more.”

Wade’s nonexistent eyebrows shot up his forehead, his jaw dropping. It would almost be comical under any other circumstances. As it was, though, Peter’s heart was too busy creating a symphony in his chest for him to see humour in anything. 

He watched as the Canadian let go of the counter, flexing his hands before taking a half-step towards him, closing their distance considerably. Slowly, chocolate-brown eyes raised to meet his, they shining with something indescribable. 

“Then why didn’t you?”

The words punched him right in the solar plexus.

He should have expected it really, it was a perfectly reasonable follow-up question. But that didn’t mean it had an easy answer. He raked a hand through his hair, tugging on the tresses lightly. He could feel those eyes burning a hole into him as he did so, it raising his heart rate to an allegro. 

Seconds ticked by into what felt like hours and still, Wade didn’t look away. 

When it became clear that Peter was scrambling for a response, he sighed, “Thanks for the tacos, Peter B. Good. You know where the door is.”

With that, Wade turned on his heel and began to walk out of the room. 

Away from Peter. 

Just like Peter did to Wade, all those months ago. History was repeating itself. 

“Wait!”

His hand landed on his shoulder before he knew what was happening. Wade froze, his entire body like a statue as Peter’s fingers clamped down on the sliver of exposed skin at the neck of his T-shirt. 

“You know, not many people get to touch me and live to tell the tale.”

He was all talk and they both knew it. The hitching of his breath gave him away just as much as his rapid pulse practically leaping from his throat. Still, Peter respected his unspoken wish and slowly lowered his hand, accidentally brushing his shoulder. The shudder didn’t go unnoticed, just the same as the electric zing that flowed from Peter’s fingers up through his arm didn’t either. 

“Do you know how long I wanted to know your name?” Wade muttered, back still turned, “To call you by it, like some dumb movie title? I even dreamt of it. Were you a Barry? An Oliver? Bruce? Or are they more DC names? I just...I wanted to know you a little bit, Peter B. Parker. And now I do, and it changes nothing.” 

Pain shot through Peter’s chest. 

He took a breath, trying to steady his next words, “I may not have told you my name, Wade. But that doesn’t mean I didn’t tell you who I am.”

“Thanks Riddler, but I’m not really into word games,” Wade threw over his shoulder with a scoff. 

“Wade—”

He suddenly whirled around, crowding into Peter and forcing him to take a step back, lest they collide. 

“Three months,” he growled, hot spurts of air bouncing against Peter’s cheek, his dark eyes narrowed into slits, “three fucking months, I called and texted and waited for you, worried about you, wondered if you’d fucking died. All I needed was one word, Peter. One word, to let me know that you were okay and—” he shook his head, cutting himself off, glancing to the ceiling as if to ask the heavens for help. 

“Didn’t take me half as long to realise that you weren’t dead, just hiding from the fact that some freakizoid tried to play tonsil hockey with you. Which, hey, I can’t say I blame ya man, I just never pegged you for a coward.”

Peter leaned into Wade’s space, “Coward?”

A barbarous twist of lips stretched Wade’s scarred face. 

“You just had to no-homo it. Our...thing. Friendship. Whatever ya wanna call it. But, no. Instead of just telling me and my feelings to take a hike, you leave the fucking continent. That makes you the worst kind of coward.”

Peter held his breath. 

“A cruel one.”

A sharp pain stabbed his chest, those words reverberating in his ears over and over and over, except it wasn’t Wade’s voice uttering them. 

It was his own. 

“You’re right.”

He had been telling himself the same thing for the last sixteen months, after all. Hell, he’d been telling himself worse for a lot longer than that. 

May as well tell Wade too.

“I’m a perpetual fuck up. A wannabe, washed up hero with delusions of grandeur. I couldn’t balance the life of Spider-Man and Peter Parker and everyone I ever cared about suffered the consequences. Including you.”

He began to pace, words tumbling from his mouth like a waterfall.

“I couldn’t stand it anymore. I lost Uncle Ben, Gwen, M.J., Harry, all in one way or another. Innocent people got hurt, no matter how hard I tried to stop it. I’d take down one bad guy and another would pop up like a giant game of Whack A Mole that I couldn’t ever win. And I began to resent it—the job, my powers, New York, all of it. It got so bad that the only thing I had to look forward to was our dinners on the roof. And I was terrified I’d do something to fuck that up too.”

He halted suddenly, as if hitting an invisible barrier. 

Slowly, he turned, his stomach twisting as his eyes reached Wade’s enigmatic ones. 

“And I did. Not you, Wade. You never did anything wrong. I did. I signed the death warrant on our friendship the second I fell in love with you.”

He was out of the room and at the front door before his brain caught up with him. Gasping in anxious breaths, his brain whirled a mile a minute as he leaned over, head hung low, palms resting against his thighs, trying desperately to calm himself. 

That was not how he had wanted things to go.

He had no intention of coming here tonight and bearing his soul, rife with all its nuroses to Wade. He had come to apologise, first and foremost. Then, not that he deserved it, he tentatively hoped that they could resume their friendship in some way, shape or form. But somewhere, not even that deep down, Peter knew that Wade deserved an explanation. Needed to witness for himself, Peter’s many, many shortcomings, and then decide for himself, if he was worth his time.

Love was not an emotional tool to be used as an excuse, folly or foil with one’s actions. And Peter never intended it as such. He had accepted his feelings for Wade over the last year, berated and belittled himself for how he handled it. Fact was, he didn’t deserve Wade’s friendship, let alone anything else. Not after fleeing like he did. 

Which he just did again.

_Fuck._

He whirled around and stormed back into the kitchen to find Wade had not moved a muscle - still stood in the middle of the room, still as a statue, mouth agape.

“I’m an asshole.”

Wade continued to stare.

“I’m the biggest asshole ever,” Peter threw up his hands, frustrated with his inability to organise his swirling thoughts, attempting to pick out the important points. 

“I’m a selfish, neurotic, depressed dick that hurt you, left you, and made you worry. I can’t...I can’t undo that. I wish I could,” he sighed, closing his eyes. 

“You deserve so much more than tacos and words, but it’s all I have.”

He leaned against the kitchen counter, sagging under the weight of shame and guilt he had carried with him. If Wade had felt any way like this over the last year, Peter didn’t ever expect him to forgive him. 

But that wasn’t why he was apologising. 

Forgiveness or no, it was the right thing to do. It was what Wade deserved to hear.

Every syllable of truth - no matter how ugly. 

“I was bored,” he spoke quietly to the floor, “my existence had become monotonous and repetitive. I had few friends, had lost people and had become...disillusioned with my life as Spider-Man and Peter Parker. Then along came you.”

Wade shifted minutely, now less like a statue and more like a man that was forcing himself to stay put despite itching to flee the scene. 

Peter took a shaky breath, still unable to catch his eye, “When you kissed me that night, after years of sharing laughs and food and more of myself than I ever thought possible, I freaked out. The idea of changing what we had, opening myself up like that and potentially ruining it just like I did my previous relationships, was unbearable. So I did the worst thing possible - I ran.”

Silence engulfed them. One beat, two, thre—

“I hated you.”

Peter’s head shot up at Wade’s voice, his stomach churning. 

“I deserve it.”

Wade tilted his head, “You’re a masochist, then. Good to know.”

The attempt at levity fell flat. Still, it was appreciated, more than Peter expected or deserved. 

“There were other ways to deal with it, you know,” Wade continued, heaving a sigh and taking a seat at the dishevelled table, “I mean, I’m no therapist, far from it, but I’m pretty sure there’s healthier ways coping with change than hurting the people you supposedly love.”

Supposedly love. 

Peter almost winced at the steady thread of disbelief in those words. 

He doesn’t believe I love him. 

Can you blame him? A voice, not unlike his Aunt May’s, asked inside his head. 

_[Whoa. Does Petey Pie have boxes like us?]_

_{Ain’t nothin’ like us}_

__

__

_[Preach]_

“Yeah, I know,” Peter admitted, rubbing the back of his neck, “seems to be one of my main character flaws.”

He raised his head, determined to hold it high as he said his next words. 

“It’s something I’m working on, though. I’ve realised that not all change is a bad thing.”

Wade nodded, chewing on his bottom lip, his eyes bouncing around Peter’s face, never quite focussing. 

“Good luck with that,” he mumbled, folding his arms across his chest and hugging himself. 

Peter nodded, knowing a dismissal when he heard one. 

“Thanks for hearing me out, Wade.”

The ‘it’s more than I deserve’ hung between them as he turned towards the door. 

“Thanks for the apology.”

With those words echoing in his ears, Peter walked out. 

He didn’t take the job, of course. It wasn’t easy saying 'thanks, but no thanks’ to J. Jonah Jameson, as none of those words were in the man’s vocabulary, but Peter figured his days as The Daily Bugle’s personal paparazzo of spandexed heroes were firmly behind him. That didn’t mean that he wouldn’t still take advantage of their sweet rooftop setup, though. 

Up here, in the night air, he felt like he could almost breathe normally again. Almost. It had been just over a week since he had seen Wade, and this was his first time back on this roof. He hadn’t made the conscious decision to come here, but his feet had clearly known where to carry him. It may have taken a lot longer sans web-shooters, but the well worn path had proven just as ingrained in him as most parts of New York City. 

The building was engulfed in darkness, much like most businesses around this time, very few offices illuminated by those burning the midnight oil. The newspaper biz wasn’t as hands-on as it once was, many journalists doing their late-night word vomiting from the comfort of their own homes, which was part of the reason why Peter had always felt safe coming here, suited up in his Spider-Man red and blue. 

And the view? That always helped too. 

“When I first moved here, I didn’t really get the hype,” a familiar voice said quietly from behind him, not at all startling him, but jolting him in a way wholly unique to him nonetheless. 

Footsteps drew closer as Peter’s heart rate picked up pace. 

“I wanna be a part of it—New York, New York,” Wade sang gently, not entirely off key, “I never really bought into that. No matter how hard Sinatra wanted me to.”

“Pretty sure it wasn’t a recruitment tool for you, Wade.”

A laugh, the most genuine he had heard in a long time, echoed between them. 

“I missed your sass.”

“My ass?”

“That too.”

Peter smiled out at the New York skyline, trying not to tense up as he felt rather than saw Wade stand next to him. 

“How did you know I’d be here?” He asked, still not able to turn his head quite yet. 

“It was always our spot.”

It was. Peter had enjoyed the irony of him and Wade chilling, sharing food, on top of the building that housed those that fought so hard to get photographic and journalistic evidence of them. Like hiding in plain sight. The ultimate power move.

“It was ballsy of you to hang out as Spidey on the building of a guy who openly calls you a public menace, an eight-legged pest, and, my personal favourite, ‘arachnofoe.’ That shit’s clever, I’ll give Jameson that.”

Peter let out his own dry chuckle. 

“I also worked here for a few years.”

“Shut the front door!”

That exclamation finally forced Peter to look at his companion who was wearing his usual hoodie, black with the Deadpool logo, hood up, hands shoved in his pockets.

Warmth pooled in Peter’s stomach as he saw a genuinely amused twinkle in Wade’s dark eyes. 

“You worked for The Bugle?”

He nodded, giving a quick salute, “Peter Parker, personal photographer of one friendly neighbourhood Spider-Man.” 

Wade’s jaw practically fell to the floor. 

“And you’d just sit up here, your place of employment, with a known mercenary, without a care in the world?”

Peter waited a beat, then two. 

“I told you, Wade. I may not have given you my name, but I let you know who I was.”

“You balls of steel, motherfucker.”

They both knew that that wasn’t what Wade wanted to reply. But their banter was a lot easier to slip into than the heavy undercurrent of conversation that was happening in between the lines.

“It paid the bills.” 

“Wow. Getting paid for takin’ selfies. You’re practically a Kardashian-Jenner.”

Peter smiled into the collar of his coat as they lapsed into silence, Wade taking his opportunity to sit down next to him on the ledge, his legs swinging back and forth, mirroring a position they had found themselves in many a night, a year ago. It was funny, Peter had never really considered it particularly dangerous before, but now, here, he realised it was incredibly reckless for a myriad of reasons. He just didn’t care. Not when he got to make Wade laugh. 

“You took my picture once, didn’t you? I remember a cute nerd with a death wish pointing an oversized camera in my face.”

Peter smirked down at his feet that were suspended forty storeys off the ground. 

“Yeah. That was me. I saw my opportunity and I took it.”

“You got my good side, if I remember correctly.”

“You don’t have a bad side. And I saw the clipping pinned to your fridge, Wade.”

The Canadian was blushing. He didn’t have to see him to know that. 

“Yeah well, if I hada known back then that you took that picture, I wouldn’t have displayed it like a parent would their brat’s scribbles.”

“No?”

Wade shifted so that his body was angled toward Peter and he was speaking directly to the side of his face, “I would have framed it. Kept it by my bed. So it was the first thing I saw when I woke up in the morning and the last thing I saw before I went to bed at night.”

Peter swallowed, his heart hammering in his chest. 

“Because that’s what you do, right? You show support...to the people you love.”

Peter stopped breathing. 

“...did you mean what you said?”

Wade’s voice sounded...vulnerable, broken, hopeful, sad, angry, and everything in between. Far too much for Peter to process, and so much more than either of them could bear to hear. 

“Every word.”

Wade nodded, “I—this past week I...I kept trying to come up with reasons why you were lying. Fucking with me. Had myself half-convinced that a Skrull had stolen your face and voice in an attempt to lure me into some false sense of security. Pretty much any excuse to explain why you’d say...that you…” he trailed off, waving his hand.

An invisible fist clenched around Peter’s heart, squeezing it painfully. 

He sometimes forgot over the years just how low Wade’s self-esteem was. It was easy to overlook, when confronted with his wit and zany antics, just how...scarred he was, inside and out. 

_Of course he wouldn’t believe you. He thinks he’s unlovable._

“You’re not a skrull in disguise, are you?” Wade asked, they both knowing that he was only half-joking. 

“I’m not a skrull, Wade.”

“Prove it. Tell me something only Spider-Man would know.”

Peter took a breath, wracking his brain for something that fit, when a small smile began spreading across his face. 

“Your favourite flower is the Amorphophallus Titanum - The Corpse Flower. You said it didn’t get enough credit for having ‘titanium phallus’ in its name and gets a bad rep for being ‘ugly and stinky’ when it’s really just other flowers being show-offs. I said I would buy you one for your birthday.”

Wade chuckled, “And I said my neighbours already hated me enough for the gratuitous violence and proclivity for blasting ABBA at 3am without keeping a giant plant that smells like rotting flesh in my apartment.”

“And when I said you had shitty neighbours with no respect for music, you said that not everyone could be ‘friendly neighbourhood Spider-Men with impeccable taste’.”

Wade snorted, “Okay, you’re not a skrull.”

Peter threw back his head, a laugh escaping his throat. It felt just like old times.

Seconds of silence ticked by between them as they looked up at the night sky.

“I didn’t think I was able to love someone else, when I hated myself so much,” Peter murmured quietly after a moment. “But god, Wade. Falling in love with you is one of the easiest things I’ve ever done. I...I didn’t even realise it at first. Can’t even tell you the exact moment I did. Just—I remembered looking over at you one night, you were telling me that joke about the kid and the two quarters, and I remember thinking, ‘I wish I could feel like how I feel when Wade makes me smile, all the time.”

Peter spoke to the stars, his head tilted high towards the sky, as if that would somehow make the admission less soul-baring.

It didn’t. 

But it was quite a view. A close-second to looking his companion in the eye.

“You were...fascinating. I wanted to know everything about you. Every little glimpse you gave me into your life had me wanting more. You took me out of myself and...after everything I had gone through already, Wade, you made me feel...excited about life again. About Spider-Man again. And that terrified me. I was so used to feeling jaded, tired, alone. Had years and years of practice. But then you’d tell me a story, buy me tacos and make me laugh and—things didn’t seem so hopeless anymore. It was why I was so freaked out at the thought of jeopardising that. Maybe losing that, if I fucked up...which I did anyway.”

He swallowed around the lump in his throat, forcing himself to continue. 

“But it wasn’t just how you made me feel about myself. It was everything you shared, everything you were, the bad and the good. It was who we both were together, in those quiet moments after our crazy adventures. The calm after the storm. I longed for them, more and more. For you. Your laugh, your stories, that big heart of yours that you try to hide behind walls of bravado.”

He took a shaky breath, “I’m not good at this, Wade. I...I never have been. Relationships, being in them, talking about them—I suck. I knew that then, knew I had baggage, and the thought of dragging you into it, into my grief and trauma and shitty handle on life and love—I couldn’t bear it.”

A hand brushed his.

Slowly, he looked down, finding Wade’s fingers trailing his, squeezing gently. 

“And you didn’t think I deserved a say in that?”

Peter sighed, squeezing his eyes closed. 

“I knew you did. But I thought...I thought if I stayed any longer you’d—you’d convince me that it was okay, that doing that to you was okay, and it wasn’t.”

“So why come back then?”

It had been a question that hung between them ever since Peter returned. 

Why was he back? What had changed? Why now? 

So, it was more like three questions rolled into one, but the sentiment remained the same. 

With his eyes still tightly shut, Peter forced out the words that had been glued to the roof of his mouth for what felt like eons now. 

“Because I realized I was wrong. What I did...was wrong. Shitty. I took any choice away from you because I was too scared to face any possibility myself. It took me helping people on a whole other continent to make me wake up to what I was running from…”

He opened his eyes, turning to Wade who he knew had yet to stray from his face. 

“You make me happy, Wade. And I…I want, more than anything in the world, to make you happy right back. I...I know being in love doesn’t magically fix anything, I know I have a long road ahead still, we both do, but I want to walk it with you. Or at least give you the choice if you want me to be there for you, support you, in all the ways you supported me.”

Another beat followed those words. Peter forced himself not to fidget. 

_It’s too late, Parker. He doesn’t want you back. Doesn’t love you back. You fucked up ag—_

“Did you ever find it weird that I took my mask off in front of you?”

That was not the response Peter was expecting.

It was enough to finally spur him into making eye contact, though. What he saw there, almost stopped his heart. 

Wade was looking at him as if he personally hung the moon. 

It was distracting, to say the least. 

“I uh…” he swallowed around emotion welling in his throat, “I figured that you knew I—Spider-Man, already knew your name, and didn’t see the point in hiding your face.” 

Wade snorted, throwing his head back in laughter, gesturing with his free hand, “This face? Seriously? You think I inflict this monstrous mug on just anyone?”

“Wade—”

A finger pressed against his lips, cutting off his protests. 

“Petey please, let me finish,” he paused, allowing Peter to nod before continuing, “I let you see my face, even when all you showed me was that chiseled jaw and those sexy, sexy lips of yours, because I felt comfortable with you. In a way I don’t think I ever had with anybody else before.”

Wade leaned forward, until barely an inch lay between their faces and Peter almost went cross eyed trying to maintain his gaze. 

“I let you see my face because I fell in love with you too. Idiot.”

He squeezed his fingers, lost for words for the first time in a long time. 

“You were already supporting me, in your own way. Being there for me unlike anyone else. You made me feel happy too. You know, when you weren’t being a dick and running away.” 

He gave another squeeze of his fingers to soothe the sting of those words. 

“I do have one question, though,” Wade continued, filling the silence as he tilted his head like a confused puppy, “Did you really base your love philosophy on a RuPaul anecdote?”

The brunet stared at him blankly, confused.

Wade rolled his eyes, busting out some sort of impression, “If you can’t love yourself, how the hell you gonna love anybody else? Can I get an amen up in—”

Peter leapt forward and captured Wade’s lips with his, swallowing however that quote ended.

“Mmph!”

Peter jerked back, instantly scolding himself. 

“Shit! Wade sorry, I—I shouldn’t have just—”

With superhuman strength, Wade pulled him back in, crashing their lips together. 

Heart skipping several beats, Peter reached up with his free hand and gently cupped Wade’s cheek, stroking the pad of his thumb across the marred skin, silently thanking him for sharing it with him, even when he had kept his own hidden.

Wade gasped, clearly receiving the message, parting his lips in surprise. Peter took that opportunity to lightly trace the seam of his bottom lip with his tongue, licking into his mouth. Wade reached up to run his free hand through Peter’s hair, his other squeezing his fingers. 

After a few moments, Peter gently broke the kiss, leaning back to look Wade in the eye, his breath bouncing off his face, “I’m sorry I...left. I know we have a lot more to talk through, to sort out, but I need you to know that there wasn’t a day that I didn’t regret it and want to come back to you,” he gasped out in one breath, pressing their foreheads together, “I freaked out. Let my crisis get the best of my better judgement and—”

“Ahhhhh,” Wade cut across him quietly, with the air of a man that just solved a particularly difficult puzzle, “You were Peter B. Parker-ing.”

“What?”

“Peter B. Parker? Dude from the multiverse? You’re kinda like him. But without, you know,” he waved his hand vaguely, “the borderline alcoholism and more existential dread.”

Peter frowned, but Wade continued undeterred, “Which, honestly? I didn’t think was possible, man, so kudos on that, I guess.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about, Wade.”

“Few ever do.”

They shared a smile, before something else mixed in with Wade’s.

“It should be the other way around, you know.”

Peter tilted his head in question. 

“If you can love me, why the hell can't you love yourself?”

_[Did he just paraphrase Lizzo?]_

__

__

{Probably. The woman speaks sense}

Peter’s chest tightened, “You’re easy to love, Wade.”

“I shouldn’t be.”

His response was rapid fire quick. Peter didn’t have to be a genius to read into that. 

“What I meant was,” Wade continued before he could jump in, “that if you have the capacity to love me, multiple warts and all, you can do the same for yourself. You just gotta cut yourself some slack.”

Silence draped over them as his words sunk in. 

He resolved to try his best. 

For Wade.

Maybe for himself, too.

And who knew, hopefully somewhere down the road, he could convince Wade that not only was it not a hardship to love him, but a privilege.

“When did you get so wise?”

Wade laughed, throwing back his head, “Oh, I was always wise. People have been calling me a wise-ass for years.”

A smile broke out on Peter’s face, “I’m pretty sure they didn’t mean it as a comment on your wisdom, Wade.”

He shrugged, unperturbed, “Tomayto, tomahto.”

Another beat of comfortable silence passed between the two, before something occurred to Peter. Slowly, he held his hand out for Wade to shake, much like he did on another rooftop, years before.

“It’s nice to meet you, Wade Wilson. You know. As me. Well, the other me.”

Wade blinked, before slowly reaching forward and clasping his hand.

Once their fingers connected, the Canadian gently pulled him closer, leaning in and pecking his lips, “It’s nice to meet you, “Peter B. Fine.”

The brunet chuckled.

“Peter B. Hot?”

He gripped his collar, pulling him closer. 

“Peter B. Sex—”

“Stop,” Peter smiled into the kiss, nipping his bottom lip teasingly, trying to draw him into something deeper, after all this time, they both deserved it. 

But Wade was pulling away. 

“Not that I'm not enjoying myself, because I sure am, but I brought dinner.”

From out of seemingly nowhere, he pulled out a paper bag, thrusting it into Peter’s hands, the familiar smell wafting into his nostrils. His stomach gave an embarrassingly loud growl. 

“You’re cute when you blush.”

“You’re cute when you’re funny.”

“So, all the time?”

“Yep.”

Wade hung his head, an adorable blush of his own crossing his face, he clearly not used to praise.

“Hey,” Peter reached up slowly, gently cupping his jaw, eyes boring into his with sincerity, “You’re setting the pace, okay? However fast or slow you wanna go is fine by me. Absolutely no pressure.”

The Canadian nodded, something like mischief flickering in his gaze, “Just one more question,” his head jerked to something on the ground behind them, smirk firmly in place, “Is that a bottle of Red Champagne?”

A sheepish smile spread across Peter’s face as his eyes fell on the bottle he had bought online. He gave a one-shouldered shrug. 

“You converted me.”

Wade snorted, “What can I say? We Canadians have good taste.”

“Flower enthusiasts may disagree.”

“Eh. Fuck ‘em.”

They split the soda, digging into their tacos that were just on the right side of warm. 

[No soggy Pym balls!]

{Wonders never cease!}

They stayed there until dawn, legs dangling over the ledge, their feet bumping together as they watched the sunrise, talking about everything and nothing, and all the things they wish they’d said a year ago. 

At 6:39am, a familiar voice somehow managed to waft all the way up to them. 

“I DON'T CARE IF THAT MENACE LEARNED TO TAP DANCE LIKE FRED ASTAIRE, HE'S NOT GOING ON OUR FRONT PAGE!” 

Wade caught Peter’s eye, “Time to go?” 

“Time to go.”

They hopped down off the ledge simultaneously, back onto the rooftop, their fingers brushing slightly as they straightened up. 

Warmth spread up Peter’s arm as he caught Wade’s eye.

“After you, Ginger.” 

Wade snorted, beginning their trek, waving around his hands, “So, what you’re saying is...I’m more of a badass as I do everything you do, but backwards and in heels?” 

Peter grinned with a nod, a spark of something blooming in his chest that he hadn’t felt in a tragically long time.

It felt a lot like hope.

**Author's Note:**

> So there ya have it, folks. My foray into Spideypool after wading the waters—
> 
> **Ha! ‘Wade’! Good one, writer lady.**
> 
> —for awhile. Hope you liked it as much as Deadpool seemed to. 
> 
> **Yeah, that’s not really saying much considering you write me that way.**
> 
> Hush. 
> 
> **I mean, talk about narcissism.**
> 
> I get it, Deadpool. 
> 
> **Do you, though?**
> 
> Yes, you Chris Hemsworth-wannabe.
> 
> **How dare you! I would never besmirch that Aussie Adonis with—**
> 
> I’m going now. Fic’s over. You’re free to chill here in the wasteland of unnecessary author’s notes, though. 
> 
> **Sounds good. I can invite Maguire, Garfield and Holland along. Can’t be any worse than Spidey-limbo while we wait for the inevitable fourth reboot.**
> 
> Just don’t make a mess.
> 
> **I’ve been waiting a long time to make ‘Into the Spider-ass’ so...no promises.**


End file.
